Christmas Cheers
by Medea Smyke
Summary: AU, fluffy little one-shots for the holidays. Part 3 - Madge and Gale try to give one another the perfect gift for Christmas, in "Gift of the Madgepie." Madge/Gale, AU.
1. Christmas Cheers

AN: A holiday break From "Redux" in which I play around with the future of my favorite ship, and subtly air some theories about D13.

A fluffy little one shot.

Edit: I've resubmitted this story with some corrections. Oy. Would you believe that I truly read through and revise these stories at least a dozen times before I submit them? Apologies!

* * *

**Christmas** **Cheers**

_Christmas Eve, Year 78, Capitol Reckoning_

"Madge, where are my boots?" Gale calls as he comes into the kitchen. He isn't wearing a shirt yet, let alone socks.

"Don't you think you should get dressed before you worry about that?" I pull open the door of the oven and peek inside. Warm air and the yummy aroma of baking cheese envelope me. "I brushed them this morning," I reply. "They're by the door."

"Oh, thanks," he says and walks back down the hall without bothering to check.

With a shake of my head and a smile, I return my attention to not burning the few parts of the Christmas dinner that Hazelle has entrusted to me. Everything's in the oven and I try to clean up the mess in our tiny kitchen, mostly as a distraction from picking at the leftover potatoes that didn't fit into the casserole dish. My baby belly still hasn't gone down completely, and I don't need to encourage it to stay.

"We don't want to be late for dinner," Gale warns, coming around the corner into the kitchen again after a few minutes. He's still walking around without socks on, buttoning his shirt. "Do we have everything?"

I pull out the dish from the oven and set it on the range top. "All right, here's the special Undersee five cheese baked-mashed potatoes and…" I get a good look at him. "…and, Gale, I thought you were going to shave?"

"Nope." He runs a hand over the black hair on his jaw.

He comes over to the stove and grabs a spoon, but I swat his hand before he can dip into the potatoes.

"Facial hair makes you look old, you know."

Gale smirks. "Liar."

I huff, but it's half-hearted. Judging by the glint in his eye, Gale knows that I think his beard gives a smoldering edge to his looks, which he can use to his advantage when Rowan's given me enough sleep. Which is frankly ridiculous because, between the two of them, I never have enough sleep these days. "Well, at least let me trim some of the maverick hairs so you don't look like a wild man when you stand next to Peeta," I say as I hurry into the bathroom and switch on the light.

He follows me with a grimace. "But we'll be late…and Mellark doesn't have to shave. Compliments of the Capitol."

"All the more reason to look presentable. You don't want to look like a border ruffian – or like Bristel – do you?" I push Gale against the sink, using my body to pin him there, then reach around him to grab the small scissors from the shelf. He teases my sides with his fingers and I yelp. We both grimace and wait for the telltale squalling from our bedroom. After a few moments of complete silence we both relax and breathe again.

"Don't do that again or I am liable to cut you," I threaten.

Gale holds up his hands in surrender.

His beard is closely cropped to his face, just long enough to be considered full, but not too long to feel bristly and scratchy. I snip off the long hairs that stick out here and there, then comb the rest down gently with my fingers. "Looks good," I say, stretching up to plant a playful kiss on his nose. "If we bleach it you could borrow my red maternity robe and play Father Christmas."

"It's not that long," Gale snorts, twisting around to inspect my handiwork in the mirror. "Besides, I wouldn't fit into your robe, maternity or not." He pauses thoughtfully with a wicked gleam in his eyes, as he faces me, "Although, I wouldn't mind getting into your robe if you were in it, too."

A blush creeps over my cheeks, more from anticipation than self-consciousness. His calloused hands cup my cheeks before I can move and his lips brush over mine. His whiskers gently graze my skin and the part of my mind that worries about the time switches off without protest. Sensing my compliance, he kisses me again, gently teasing my lips with his own. Gale tastes like peppermint…which I have a feeling means he's perused his family's gifts…and something else that is distinctly him. He's still pressed between me and the sink, but I feel like the one who's been caught as his arms slip down my back. He pulls me in, conforming my body to his. It's so rare to find quiet moments like this lately, just the two of us, and I burrow into his warmth. As the kiss deepens, his hand inches up the hem of my dress, and my fingers scrabble for the buttons of his shirt.

I've almost got him out of it when a throbbing wail pierces the air.

"Rowan." I exhale slowly and lean my head against Gale's chest. His heart beats erratically and I can see my flushed cheeks in the mirror. "I guess we got a little carried away?"

"My mother's going to kill us," he murmurs against my hair.

We part reluctantly.

"Just hold the baby up to her right away and she'll forget all about us and the time," I reply, straightening my dress.

He gives me a wry smile. "I'm afraid that's true."

I leave Gale to button his shirt again and fix his hair while I take care of our screaming infant. In the cradle next to our bed, Rowan's little fists are balled up and flailing above his red race. He quiets a little when I lift him up; but this is a cry for dinner, not attention, and until I maneuver out of my dress, his cries resume with gusto.

"Such a racket for so small a person," I murmur when he begins to feed. His cries melt into the sound of impatient suckling, and the occasional cough when he swallows too quickly. I fluff the soft tufts of unruly black hair with my fingers into some semblance of order. It never works, with him usually resembling a ruffled raven, but I don't need much of an excuse to play with my little boy.

Gale comes in with his jacket half-buttoned and a scarf looped carelessly around his throat. He's holding my wool coat and wrappings draped over his arm.

"Almost ready?" he asks, setting my things on the bed.

"Not really."

He bends down in front of me and gently runs a finger over Rowan's flushed cheek. The baby smiles in reaction to the touch, causing an answering grin to break over Gale's features that brighten his eyes. _Wow. _

"Gale, where are you socks?" I laugh, glancing at his bare feet. He looks endearingly ridiculous with his winter things on and nothing on his feet.

"Oh." He looks down. "I keep forgetting."

Forgetting? I'm wearing two pairs and my feet are still freezing. How Gale can get away without wearing anything on his feet is beyond me. But then, his body always does feel a few degrees warmer than everyone else's. He literally repels the cold.

"Put them on now while we're thinking of it. Rowan's only just gotten started, anyway."

Gale pulls out the first pair of socks he can find in the dresser drawer and slides them on his feet, balancing on one foot instead of sitting down on the bed.

"What's he supposed to be, then?" Gale asks, nodding toward Rowan, who is dressed entirely in green velvet.

"An elf, I think," I reply. "Your mother sent this over as an early Christmas present. He has a little matching stocking cap in the cradle."

"How can she afford stuff like this?" Gale asks as he fishes the cap out from under the blankets and examines it. He's having a difficult time adjusting to life with a little more plenty.

"I think Rory's been flirting with the tailor's daughter."

Gale blinks. "How long has that been going on?"'

"Since they arrived on the hovercraft together hand in hand," I quip.

"Huh," Gale grunts. "They're too young." He rolls his eyes. "Anyway, we never had anything like this when I was growing up. How many outfits does it come to now?"

"I believe Hazelle has sent over five outfits for every centimeter that he's grown in the last four weeks, which doesn't include all the things she made before he was born," I say as I move Rowan to my other breast.

"And that doesn't include all the other bits of clothing and blankets and nappies that Prim and Mrs. E sent…" Gale's eyes take on a vacant expression. The amount of _stuff_ we've acquired since living in D13 Above always seems to boggle him. "Speaking of which…I found this on the doorstep." He walks back into the hallway and returns with a stained parcel labeled in large, sloppy script:

HAWTHORNE

CABIN 4, ABOVE

...happy xmas...

There are telltale "water" rings on the package.

"Haymitch," I say as he opens it.

"How can you always tell? Never mind, I see the rings," Gale mutters, tearing open the packaging. There isn't a card. "Oh look. More baby clothes. My son has more outfits in his first five weeks of life than I've had in a _lifetime_." Gale leafs through the stack of onesies, sweaters, and bloomers while I wonder who had a hand in picking them out for Haymitch. Some of them are dyed very bold colors. Hmm.

"When is twenty-three years a lifetime?" I ask wryly.

Gale ignores the barb. "Why didn't he bother coming himself?" he asks as he sets the clothes down on the bed. "Katniss and Peeta made the trip; I think he should have come up with them instead of spending Christmas by himself. Even if I don't particularly care for his company, he _was_ your guardian."

"Well, he has an ongoing rebellion and fledgling republic to help look after," I mutter with a nonchalant shrug. "And probably because you always have that surly, lemon look on your face when he does visit." And mostly because, as a perpetual bachelor, babies and Haymitch do not mix comfortably. Plus, there's my new theory about the clothes. Haymitch doesn't have a knack for domestic things such as baby sizes and matching pieces. I suspect there's a woman involved, but I keep that thought to myself.

Gale sneers. "I do not look surly. He's probably just reluctant to leave his liquor cabinet."

"Oh dear, look at the time," I say, avoiding yet another fruitless argument about Haymitch.

"Oh!" he gasps. "We need to get out of here."

I hand him Rowan while I fix my dress and run to the kitchen to wrap up the food to bring. I use all of our dishtowels to keep the potatoes warm and rummage for some twine to tie it with. I find our burlap bag with sturdy handles to carry everything and then collect the gifts of peppermint canes, clementines, and nut cakes. I've just put those away when I hear a string of curses from the bedroom.

"Um…Madge," Gale calls down the hall.

"I'm just about ready," I reply sharply, thinking he's upset about the time.

"Madge!" He cries louder, panic threading his voice. "Help me, _please_."

Recognizing that certain pitch in his voice, I immediately picture my son dead in his arms as I race to the bedroom.

"What happened?" I cry as I slide through the doorway.

Gale's eyes are wild as he holds the baby, quite alive, as far from his body as he can, using his fingers to support Rowan's stubby neck. "I don't know! He just exploded at both ends."

I force myself to take a deep, calming breath.

Which proves to be a mistake.

Ugh. My blue-eyed boy stares innocently – happily, even – into the stricken face of his father, who looks anything but calm. White ooze covers Rowan's face, dribbling down the rolls of skin meant to be his neck and chin. The ooze spreads down his little chest, smeared along by his chubby hands. But it's the yellow goop running down his legs that worries me.

"What did you do?" I demand.

"Nothing!" Gale grouses, glaring at me beneath ominous eyebrows. "I rocked him a little."

My hands fly to my hips, not intimidated by said eyebrows. "A little?"

"I bounced him in the air," he finally admits, still dangling a mired Rowan in front of him. "But only once."

"He just _ate_, Gale!"

"I didn't know this would happen!" he retorts.

"You had _three _younger siblings growing up." I hold up three fingers for emphasis. "I was an only child and even_ I_ know better."

"But Posy never did anything like _this_," he sputters incredulously.

Poor man. He's starting to look a little off-kilter with his hair askew and eyes flashing as the baby spreads a layer of spit-up over his chubby hands. It's very difficult to overwhelm Gale. Rowan has now managed to do it twice in his short life. The day he entered the world, and today when he pooped and puked all over it.

"Here, let's bring him into the bathroom," I say, taking control of the situation. Gale follows. "Hold him up for me while I shimmy him out of the soiled clothes."

Gale holds him over the sink as I peel away the green velvet shirt and bloomers, and then the onesie and diaper. The outfit is unsalvageable. What are we going to tell Hazelle? I grab a fresh cloth diaper from the cabinet under the sink while Gale runs lukewarm water from the tap and begins to rinse the baby off.

Rowan gurgles pleasantly in his naked state until the water hits him. Then he squalls like a cat until he's dry again. Next I have to wrestle the angst-riddled tyke into the diaper.

"You'll want to wear a different coat," I tell Gale once I've safely pinned the cloth in place.

He looks down at himself and passes Rowan off to me without a word. It's difficult not to laugh at the sour expression of wounded dignity on his face, but I manage. Just.

I carry Rowan back into the bedroom to dress him, grabbing the first thing available: the gifts from Haymitch. Taking the tamest colored long-sleeved onesie, I start pulling it over Rowan's head without further inspection.

"Hell's teeth! We were supposed to be there twenty minutes ago!" I hear Gale exclaiming from the front door.

While I'm struggling to button the onesie around Rowan's flailing legs and reaching for one of the tiny sweaters to dress him, Gale comes back wrapping a scarf around my neck and pulling a hat on my head. I try brushing the hair out of my eyes with the back of my hand and still maintain a hold on the baby. Gale's changed his coat in favor of two more sweaters and also brought the baby basket.

"Don't bother with that," he says, taking the sweater out of my hands. "Just wrap him up in a bunch of blankets."

I frown. "Gale – "

"Go put your coat and boots on. I've got this," he orders, already pulling out blankets and winding them around our son.

"I don't know…"

"Just trust me. Posy's still alive, isn't she?"

"Well…but…the onesie…cold…"

"Go." He shoos me away.

"Yessir."

Grabbing the coat from the bed, I leave Gale to finish bundling up the baby. In our front room, I lean against the log wall near the door to pull on my first boot when Gale meets me with the baby basket and bag of gifts and casserole in hand. I've barely got the second one on before we're out the door and walking through the snowy darkness under the fir trees toward the other Hawthorne cabin in D13 Above. I snatch the food and presents out of his grip and hook my arm through his.

"Gale, where are your mittens?" I ask, adjusting my scarf so the snow can't fly down my coat.

"Don't need 'em," he replies stoically. He's only got a hat and scarf on over his layer of sweaters.

"Hmph." I shove my hand into his sweater pocket for warmth. And I'm wearing mittens.

"Pretty, innit?" he says about the woods. The trees are laced in snow, making the darkness seem less dark. Sometimes I'm a little afraid of the woods at night, but the snow makes everything look softer and more inviting, that I think the bobcats and wolves (contrived by my active imagination) might feel a little more neighborly than usual should we happen upon them.

It's our first Christmas together in this new colony, which is actually situated north of the original District 13 in lands that the Capitol never bothered to develop and eventually lost to the rogue district. Gale and I were married in the Underground the autumn of last year and were offered the choice of settling here with the first wave of colonists leaving the overcrowded city. Although the prospect had its own set of dangers and concerns, it seemed like the natural choice for someone like Gale, who doesn't particularly favor life below the crust.

Gale left first with our friend Bristel and a group of other men and women last February. They built many of the houses and buildings standing now. Then a small group of family members and merchants arrived in the summer, including me and a grapefruit-sized future Hawthorne.

Three months ago, another wave of colonists arrived and it was like a District 12 reunion, with Gale's family and other Seam folk following. And the timing couldn't have been better as Rowan was born two month later. I am glad to have Hazelle helping me maneuver this brand new life, and Gale's happy to have his people close.

We pass through the new square and the town. Other families are out, greeting one another while going their various ways. Lights glow in the windows and festive greenery hangs from every doorway. It's beautiful with the snow falling gently overhead, but we haven't much time to enjoy it as Gale quickens his steps toward the lane heading out of town and back into the woods where a few outlying cabins have been built.

We're over an hour late when we arrive on Hazelle's doorstep. Gale knocks and we can hear his mother bustling to the door. She takes in our snow-caked figures and all but pulls us inside.

"Come in, we thought you might have gotten lost in the woods and froze to death. I was about to send Katniss to track you," Hazelle cries over Gale's indignant snort. "_Let_ _me_ _see_ _him_, _Gale_."

With a proud grin, Gale holds up the basket containing our son. Underneath a pile of fleecy blankets, Rowan's round, pink face peeps out. He's blissfully asleep, which brings a soft smile to Hazelle's tired features.

While she takes the carrier and fawns over the infant, Rory comes down the hall and takes the packages and food out of my hands. I give him a kiss on the cheek. "Merry Christmas."

"Okay, Rory?" Gale asks.

"Sure," he says, giving his signature carefree shrug. "Everyone's in the other room."

Hazelle carries Rowan off to one of the bedrooms to put away his basket and baby stuff. Gale takes my coat and wrappings, hanging them on a row of hooks, then we follow Rory. The aroma of goose roasting and warm bread waft toward us as we enter the next room.

Vick stomps into the living room at the same time we do, from the opposite side leading to the kitchen and backdoor. In his arms, a precariously full pile of wood hides his face from view, but I can see the tufts of black hair sticking up. He's brought the wood in from the backyard for the fireplace. As he leans backward, Gale lurches forward to help him before he falls and ends up with a bunch of kindling on his face.

"Whew!" Vick whistles. "That was close."

"Make two trips next time," Gale says, taking the wood and placing it in the box on the hearth. He adds a few irons to the fire and stokes the flames up. "That's what Dad used to call a lazy man's load."

Vick winks at me and rolls his eyes.

Posy runs up to give me a hug. Floury patches on her face and dress transfer over to mine. She chatters away to me about the pie she's helping to make when Gale tweaks her braid, teasing her for always favoring her sister-in-law instead of her own brother.

Peeta stands by the Christmas tree arranging the bows and popcorn strands into tasteful patterns, while Katniss frowns at his work with a box of handmade ornaments in her arms. I can tell by the set of her shoulders that she agrees with Gale: trees should stay outside. Preferably loaded with something potentially edible.

We haven't seen them very much in the last few years, with their involvement in the revolution after Peeta's rescue, and our new life here.

"You're into decorating now, Catnip?" Gale asks, peering inside the box. He grabs out a tiny nutcracker before Katniss can hold the box out of his reach. "He has domesticated you, after all."

"Ha. This is easy compared to designing a whole fashion line," she scoffs. A lopsided grin steals over Peeta's face as he continues to pluck off bows and rearrange them. Of course, Katniss never designed anything in her life, even snares which she got from Gale. It's an old joke, but they never seem to tire of it.

"Looks very nice, Peeta," I say, drawing closer to the tree. He wipes his hands off on his trousers and then drapes an arm around my shoulder in a half hug. I get a good look at his face. Peeta may not need to shave, but nobody would mistake him for a boy now. His experiences weigh heavily on his grave, handsome face. "We're glad you two could make it up," I tell him.

"We are, too," he smiles wearily.

Peeta nods at Gale. Gale nods at Peeta.

You wouldn't know it by looking at them, but the two have overcome their differences, and might actually be called friends…or friendly, anyway.

"Is that supposed to be a man greeting or something? Really, the pair of you," Katniss snipes. She shoves the box into Peeta's hands and gives me a hug. "Well, it's good to see _you_, anyway. Merry Christmas."

"Welcome Above," I reply. In a stage whisper I ask, "Did you have a good time on your honeymoon?"

Katniss blushes and Peeta does his best to not look smug. An appalled frown creases Gale's face, not enjoying the direction the conversation is heading.

She clears her throat, "I guess. Maybe. Yes." Then she whispers in my ear.

"I told you it would be," I reply a little breathlessly, having rather fond memories of my own. And this time Gale looks smug.

"Where's Rowan?" Peeta asks as he starts hanging ornaments. "We haven't seen him since our wedding a month ago."

"Hazelle commandeered him at the door," I reply.

"Does he still look like a potato alien?" Rory asks, coming around the corner of the kitchen. He nudges Posy and she giggles into her hands.

I feel my eyes pop, but then I burst out laughing at the mental image this conjures. "No, he looks like a real baby now."

"Potato alien?" Gale asks, slightly offended. I take his hand and squeeze it; a reminder not to lose his temper.

Vick elaborates with a smirk, "You know, all wrinkly and red and squished and stuff."

"I want to hold him!" Posy pleads, tugging on Gale's arm. "Please, Gale. I don't think he looks like a potato."

A sharp, mewling cry drifts into the living room from the hallway. "Well, he's awake," I sigh.

Hazelle comes in dandling Rowan in her arms and cooing. But when she claps eyes on us, her face grows stern. I swallow nervously, usually not at the receiving end of a fierce mom glare. "May I ask about this?"

Gale blinks and actually takes a step back. "What?"

Hazelle unwraps a bit of the swaddling to reveal the top of Rowan's onesie. "'My Other Bottle's a Beer'?"

Oops. I bit down on my lip.

"Uh…we can explain," Gale stammers under the weight of Hazelle's glare.

**The** **End**

_Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! May all your gifts be as festive as the one Haymitch sent. _

AN: About D13 - According to a Wikipedia article, the US does not mine graphite. However, Canada is a major exporter. The map showed that a speck of it mined just above the Great Lakes in southeastern Ontario. That has interesting implications for how much of North America Panem includes, as well as the possible location for D13. For my own purposes, I have placed the boundaries of D13 in New York/Ontario, and assume based on Appalachian coal belt that D12 cover some of Pennsylvania and W. Virginia. That is, the district boundaries extend that far, but it seems like SC only had the citizens living in a very close nucleus in a corner of the district.


	2. Baby It's Cold Outside

**A/N: **Many thanks to KenoshaChick for all the shameless plugging and Fanfic Picking (a la Muttations Podcast). And also my thanks to Ceylon205 for beta.

**Christmas Cheers II: Baby, It's Cold Outside**

"You could melt her heart right down to butter, if you'd only turn on the heat!" Mamie, _Holiday Inn_

"Sure, don't mind what happens to your family. At a time like this you think about the chickens." Mrs. Anna Smith, _Meet Me in St. Louis_

* * *

The cold spot on his back wakes Rory up from a deep winter sleep. He lies on his side and shivers in the frigid darkness before pulling the eiderdown up to where the scratchy stubble grows on his neck. He waits in a sleepy stupor for the warmth to soak into his bones. But something more than just the warmth seems to be missing.

A sneaking suspicion germinates in the gurgley pit of his stomach. It grows until it tickles his ribs and makes his nose itch.

Rory's raspy voice scratches his ears like sandpaper. "Prim?"

He reaches out behind him, blindly feeling the sheets with his hand. Nothing.

Bogdammit.

Rory wakes up in inches then groans like a groggy bear. He rolls around in the mattress until he's facing one way and his boxers are all twisted around his hips, trying to stay where they were before he woke up. Where his wife usually lies curled up against his back, a long shadowy indent in the feather mattress impresses upon him one thing: Prim has gone missing.

Again.

Rory groans a second time and stubbornly refuses to get up. Not this time. Nuh uh.

He knows the routine of Prim's midnight shenanigans now. Prim's forgotten a task she meant to start or finish. Then she can't sleep until she realizes what it is and takes care of it. Well, he's not going to find her and stay up all night helping her figure it out. A young guy like him needs sleep to recuperate. He has to do farmy things in the morning, which requires all his strength and concentration so he doesn't lose a hand chopping wood or feed rat poison to the chickens.

And with that Rory's ready to fall back to sleep. He lets out a few preliminary snores for emphasis.

Until he starts imagining what Prim might have gotten up to. Maybe a midnight mission of mercy to read stories to her niece and nephew again – an occurrence that nearly gave Peeta a heart attack when he went to check out the giggling in the nursery. Or maybe Prim remembered that she's forgotten to put out the freshly seeded pinecones for the birds, like she did a few weeks ago and now she's lost in the snowy woods filled with hungry beasts waiting to gobble her up.

Either way, Prim's probably going to freeze to death, even if she's just cleaning imaginary spots off the counter in the kitchen. Rory can hear the wind rattling the windows and the chilling bite of it in the draughts coming through. He'd hate to announce at Christmas dinner tomorrow that Prim turned into a Primcicle while on his watch. Katniss would turn him into a Rorycabob and feed him to crotchety old Buttercup.

Rory reflects that he's only twenty-one. Too young to die. Too handsome for maiming.

And well, he really likes Prim. He'd like to keep her for a few more decades. So he rolls out of bed. His toes sink into the braided rug covering the floorboards. Their bedroom is sparsely decorated: white walls, their wedding portrait that Peeta painted, an old dresser and nightstand set that Gale helped him re-stain and finish, the rugs Prim made herself, and some doodles from their scads of nieces and nephews that Prim couldn't fit on the convalescing icebox in the kitchen. Rory reaches for the lamp on the nightstand with the frilly white shade that Prim insisted they buy instead of the sans-frill shade he preferred. He switches on the light, making sure to purposefully avoid glancing at the clock.

Rory looks around, noticing that Prim's nightgown and slippers aren't on the floor or hanging over the side of the bed, which means she's still wearing them. Hopefully, she just got herself a cup of tea in the kitchen or decided to dust the mantelpiece over the fireplace in the living room. Or, hey, maybe she's reading that anthology of Christmas stories he brought her from the library. No big deal. But just in case, he throws on a pair of flannel trousers and the crumpled sweater he tossed over the footboard before getting into bed a few hours earlier.

The floorboards creak as Rory shambles down the hallway into the cold, dark, _empty_ kitchen and he gives the wood-burning stove a considering glance. He opens the stove door; the lingering coals blink sleepily at him from the banked fire. Rory can still smell the cinders, but whatever heat is left doesn't make a dent in the bitter December night. He throws in kindling from the box next to the stove and stokes the cinders until they glow red and orange. He adds twisted pieces of newsprint to help the new chunk of wood catch.

Rory trudges back toward the bedroom, taking care to peek into the den first.

"Prim?" He looks around at the empty armchairs, the Christmas tree with a few gifts underneath, and the dark fireplace.

Nobody's present except old Buttercup, the only cat allowed inside. He gives Rory the stink eye from his place on the couch. Rory backs out of the living room slowly.

The house only has four rooms in it besides the john. He checks the guest room, but the doorway's wide open and empty. As Rory feared, Prim isn't in the house. Back in their bedroom, Rory yawns and scratches that hard to reach place on his back. He'd like nothing better than to slip back under the covers, but it's not the same when he's alone. And again, there's the problem of the Primcicle. So he throws on two pairs of socks on his feet and girds himself for outside. He has an idea about where Prim might be. Of course it wouldn't be a sensible place. An easy to reach place. A warm place.

Nope. Not with his wife. The Everdeen women don't come with an 'easy' button. Rory heads back to the kitchen and leans over the sink to look out the frost-laced window facing the goat shed and Prim's greenhouse. At first, he sees a young man with tousled, black hair; a scruffy, triangular jawline; and drowsy, hooded eyes. He squinches his eyes past the handsome devil in the window to see the shed across the dooryard. Sure enough, soft yellow lantern light leaves buttery squares on the newly fallen snow through the shed windows. She's gone for a midnight visit to the barn animals.

Rory cringes. These shenanigans will be the death of them both. The shed is not a fit place for humans on a winter night. It's draughty and dusty and good enough for animals, but not for Prim. So first things first, Rory fills the dented kettle with water from the tap, setting it on the stove to boil, and then he searches for a flask and the teapot. He sets his items down on the counter and heads out to the mudroom to further investigate the situation. Prim's fleece-lined winter boots lie flopped over one another on the floor. Typical. Then he checks the front closet. Sure enough, there's her wool coat hanging there with a scarf and mittens stuffed into the pockets. She might as well be naked out there.

Although, if she was naked, he would forget the tea and hurry up just a little more.

Rory throws on his muck jacket from the back of the closet and winds a wool scarf in double loops around his neck, gathering up her winter things and throwing them on the counter next to the flask in time for the kettle to whistle. He steeps a strong winter tea blend that will pepper up his frozen bride in the time it takes to entice her back into bed.

Flask and winter gear in hand, Rory steps out of the farmhouse and instantly regrets his valiant efforts. It's not a fit night for man or beast. Silver stars stud the black velvet sky over the frozen world. In the distance, the wind drives snow across his stubble fields in swirling drifts, moaning through the trees in the dooryard. All his sensitive bits try to crawl inward as far from the cold as possible until he's not sure he'll recover. So much for posterity. Still, for Prim's sake he clenches his teeth like a man against the brisk winter wind and tramps through the frozen path to the shed. The sound of snow crunching under his boots chides him for stalking around his farm at night rather than sleeping in his nice warm bed as he ought.

"At least it's beautiful to look at," he mutters to himself, rousing some shriveled, sleepy pride in his farm.

The Hawthornes and Everdeens moved to a new settlement north of District Thirteen, following Rory's brother Gale and his then new wife, Madge. Rory had been about fourteen at the time. He apprenticed for most of his teen years with a man called Hogget from former District 11, who had just been awarded his first share of land by the new Panem government. Rory apprenticed then worked as a hired hand for Farmer Hogget until he had the money and the know-how to start this little farm he calls Meadowlark Acres. He spent the winters between harvests and plantings working with Gale as a ranger until he could build the little clapboard house. That's when Rory felt he had the right to ask Prim to come live with him forever. He proposed just after the harvest festival last year when he'd reaped the largest bumper crop to date and managed to sell the lot for a good price. When he showed her the house and told her it belonged to both of them, Prim laughed and cried at the same time in that way that always makes him feel alarmed and gratified all mixed. She said yes, which was the best part. They were married in the spring.

Rory's taken to farming like a fish in a swimming pool. Not his natural environment, but its worked just as well. It's just a little hobby farm. You could barely call it a subsistence living. At least for now. Rory has plans for buying more land in the next five years and turning this place into something more profitable than it already is. Then he can hire more farmhands besides Vick, whose heart is really into the music he writes and not in driving the hay baler.

Mostly they just grow vegetables and hay. Pumpkins, squash, tomatoes, corn, soy beans, onions, and potatoes. Prim has her herb beds to keep her busy when she isn't working with her mother at the apothecary in the town ten miles away. Rory doesn't keep much livestock, just some goats and chickens and all the kittens Prim can find in the hedgerows. She can't bear the thought of slaughtering pigs or cows. In fact, the only meat they do get comes from Katniss or the butcher who trades him for fresh eggs, vegetables and Prim's remedies. It took Rory forever to get Katniss to accept payment for the wild game of rabbits, fish, turkey and anything else she brings in. It also took her forever to accept that Rory could take care of her little sister. Luckily, he had Prim's brother-in-law, Peeta, on his side, and Gale's bull-headedness as an example.

And now he has to keep his wife from catching pneumonia.

The white side door of the red shed stands open a crack. Light filters out onto the stone step and the snow beyond it. Before going inside, Rory takes a look at the old mercury thermometer nailed by the side of the door. He shivers and hopes it's broken and the mercury's running out instead of the alternative which means it's more than just cold, it's negative warmth.

Rory pushes through the doorway. His senses fill with the musty smells of dirt, hay and goat, which hang in the air mingling with the sharp scent he can only describe as snow or cold. He shuts the door firmly behind him and treads down the spacious wooden aisle, one side lined with wooden animal stalls (mostly used for storage) and the other side filled with rakes and shovels, a wheelbarrow, bags of feed, and hay stacked neatly all the way up to the ceiling. Several pairs of shiny cat eyes wink lazily at him from the dark, cobwebby rafters overhead. This morning, Prim came out right after breakfast to pound nails into the wooden beam over the stalls, scattering the cats and leaving an emerald green bunch of mistletoe hanging over each stall. That's her way of making the shed more festive for the animals. He worried about the poisonous berries, but Prim educated him. Goats can eat just about anything, even arsenic.

He's tempted to make a scientific experiment out of it, especially when he spots his wife.

Rory finds Prim sitting merrily inside the goat family's stall, her back braced up against the wooden slats and goats flanking her right side. Prim's head snaps up when he slides the door open and a happy, rosy smile brightens her face. Rory leans against the doorpost, momentarily stunned as he takes in the sight in front of him. She looks like a rustic angel presiding over the manger on Christmas morning, causing his breath to catch. He never could disguise his adoration of Prim.

"You're awake," she says brightly, like he's made her night just by joining the party. It's probably not far from the truth.

Rory clears his throat. "Er, I came looking for you. Thought you might be cold."

"Oh." Prim's light eyelashes flutter as if she's considering the temperature for the first time. She huddles under a linen shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders, sitting in a soft pile of fresh hay she must have put down in the goat stall. Prim looks comfortable enough, but she's only wearing her nightgown, the shawl and slippers, he notes with exasperation.

"I didn't notice the cold very much," she deprecates, but her knees betray her by knocking together.

Rory stares down at his tiny, shivery slip of a wife, despairing of her. It's true she'd be so absorbed by the goats that she wouldn't notice the frost biting her nose and ears and causing her bones to rattle. Katniss was right about one thing, Prim will always need someone to look after her because she spends so much time caring for everyone else that she forgets about her own well-being. The shed is not a fit place for a human being in this weather. He's told her time and again that animals have built in winter coats, unlike people, and warmer internal temperatures. But she insists on looking in on them like they're her own children.

"Prim, what are you doing out here?" he asks, though he knows full well.

Prim sees his arms laden with her winter gear and smiles ruefully. "I brought Princess Eugenia and her kids their Christmas dinner," she tells him like it's the most natural thing in the world. "I only planned to stay for a few minutes, but then we were having so much fun, I forgot."

Fun? Rory shakes his head. More like the goats taking advantage of his kind wife's generosity. Geez, the little crooks. Rory wonders what the old Goat Man from Twelve would have thought of the way Prim coddles the animals.

Princess Eugenia, the nanny goat, and her twins, Duchess and Governor, are wrapped in woolen blankets Prim brought from their own linen closet, greedily eating mash from steaming earthenware bowls while Prim shivers on the ground next to them. Her lips have turned blue, he notices with silent alarm. Rory squelches the urge to lecture the goats for not noticing too; he realizes that would be silly.

"They've almost finished," says Prim. As if to corroborate this, Duchess rests her gray muzzle on Prim's knee and bleats sleepily at Rory. He takes that as an invitation to step further into the stall.

"Drink this," he orders, putting the flask of tea into the two ice blocks Prim calls hands. She can hardly bend her fingers. Fortunately, holding the hot flask has the added effect of warming them. He makes Prim put on her coat and scarf and gloves after she's gotten a few sips in. He removes her slippers and warms her toes between his hands. She giggles the whole time, begging him to stop tickling her and trying to free her feet. They disturb the feeding goats. Princess Eugenia gives them a disapproving bleat. He pretends not to understand Prim's protests until he's satisfied that the blood is circulating in her feet again. Then he slips the boots on her feet for her and ties them tightly.

"Keep sipping that tea," Rory orders, getting up.

"Where are you going?" Prim asks breathlessly from all the tickling.

"To put some logs in the stove," he says frankly, "before you freeze to death."

Prim blushes. "I would've lit the stove, but I didn't want to burn down the shed."

"Huh." Rory doesn't mean to be grouchy with her. He just wishes that she'd consider herself more often. If anyone deserves to be a little more self-absorbed, it's his Prim. He feeds wood from the pile along the wall into the old potbelly stove in the corner of the shed and nurses the flames till the wood's cracking and snapping with warmth, Rory muses that he'd rather she burned the shed to ashes than come down with hypothermia herself. The heat from the stove penetrates the cold shed slowly, but it's enough warmth to make the frozen moisture in his nose thaw out. Rory wipes his nose on the back of his sleeve while Prim isn't looking.

Across the aisle, Rory notices Henny Penny, Minerva Louise, Poulette, and Little Red giving him the stink eye from their roost for waking them up. Chicken censure is the worst.

"Well, that should help," he tells her when he returns to the stall, wiping his sooty hands on his trousers. Princess Eugenia has finished her mash and settled into the farthest corner of the box, watching Rory cautiously through her black, beady eyes. He settles down on the clean straw next to Prim and prepares himself for a long night.

"Thank you, Rory," Prim says meekly, pressing a surprisingly warm kiss against his chilled cheek. "You're sweet."

"Er. Forget it," he replies blushingly.

"I won't," she promises, reaching for his hand with her gloved one. "I remember all the nice things you do for me." That makes Rory blush more. Being on this side of gratitude always embarrasses him a little.

"Well, it's my job, Prim," he says humbly.

Prim scoots closer to him, dislodging the little goats leaning against her and rests her head on Rory's shoulder. He rests his head on hers, sneaking a whiff of her golden, gardenia-scented hair. It's not ruined too much by the goat smells.

"You were sleeping so soundly when I got up. I felt sure I didn't wake you. Did you have a bad dream?" she asks.

Rory thinks about it. No, something less tangible than a dream woke him. "I could just tell that you were gone and couldn't sleep."

Prim gently squeezes his arm. "Really?"

"Yep." Rory smiles against her hair. "I guess I got used to you being there next to me. You're a vast improvement after sharing a mattress with Vick for years."

Prim sighs happily, then says, "I like everyone I've ever slept with."

Rory's eyes bug out of his head. "Er. What?" As far as he knew, he was the only she'd ever been with. "Who else?" he demands, shifting uncomfortably on the floor.

Unperturbed, Prim answers, "Well, Katniss and my mother and Buttercup." She assures him, "But I like you best."

Oh. That's all she meant. He certainly hopes he's her favorite, then. Her word choice nearly gave him a stroke. A man's allowed to feel proprietary where his wife is concerned. He might have a few words with Buttercup.

While Rory and Prim relax against one another, the kids lick up the last drops of mash out of the bowls. Governor shakes off the woolen blanket Prim tucked around him and approaches Rory on wobbly legs, prodding around his coat pockets and trousers with his black and white nose.

"Looking for handouts? You'll spoil your breakfast tomorrow," Rory chides. But he still produces some grain that he got from the dispenser nailed to the wooden post outside the stall. The baby goat snuffles up all the grain left in Rory's pocket with his wet, stubbly lips until it's gone. Then he flops down next to Rory, waiting for his ears to be scratched. Prim's got the goats confusing themselves for pet puppies. He pats Governor's fat belly and regrets all that grain and hot mash going to waste. These goats will live to see old age, and when they die, it will only be because Prim can't do anything about that even with all her herb lore. Animals couldn't ask for a safer haven than Meadowlark Acres, Rory thinks ruefully. Sure, Prim makes cheeses from Princess Eugenia's milk (when she doesn't have kids to feed), and the rest of the milk can be sold to mothers with sickly children. But Rory eyes Governor's side and sees a few good mutton dinners in the making. The goat, sensing the danger, trots away from Rory and clambers clumsily over the mash bowls lying on the ground. Governor bleats at Prim until she tucks him safely under her other arm. Ingrate.

The bowls remind Rory of something he meant to ask. "Why are we out here giving the goats a midnight snack?" he says petulantly. The animals should have bedded down for the night, and so should the humans.

Prim sighs sadly and Duchess, the baby girl goat, nuzzles her shoulder, then tries nibbling Prim's hair. She gently extricates it from Duchess's mouth. "I couldn't sleep thinking about how cold all the poor animals must be in this shed," she answers, scratching Duchess's head.

"Huh." Know what else is cold? The bed. Rory's toes. Penguins in Antarctica. "You're going to freeze to death yourself. Come back to bed," he urges. "The animals will be fine now that the stove's lit."

Prim bites her lip, which are a healthy, rosy red now. "It's more than that, Rory."

"More than what?"

Prim's eyes shine soulfully in the lantern light as she gazes up at him. Rory has always been a sucker for her eyes and her enthusiasm. He tries to forget that fact in light of the Siberian weather conditions. "It's Christmas Eve," she murmurs.

"Not for much longer," he points out doggedly. "So?"

"Well," she says gently, "we spent the evening with your family and tomorrow we'll have Christmas with Katniss and Peeta, my mother and the kids. We won't get to spend time with our own little family here on the farm."

Rory gapes. Kids in school had called him some pretty rude things back in the day, but never had anyone said that his family was a bunch of barn animals. He certainly didn't expect it from Prim.

Princess Eugenia's beady eyes meet Rory's surprised grey ones across the stall. She bleats loudly and Rory agrees. Prim has gone a little far there.

"What does that have to do with freezing our knickers off?" he whines.

Prim smiles up at him. "Christmas is a time we spend with everyone we love, Rory. And we love Princess Eugenia and her kids and they love us." She gives Governor and Duchess each a hug and a kiss on their noses for emphasis. Governor protests against affection and flees to his mother, kicking up hay and dust. Then he tries to play it cool by bleating for milk.

"I think they love to eat us out of house and home," Rory grumbles, partially because it's true and partially because he's got to kiss Prim's goat-y, Buttercup-y lips.

Prim giggles. "You sound like Gale," she says fondly. Fair enough. She's known Gale almost as long as Katniss has – which is longer than she's known Rory. And Gale did spend half the Christmas meal regaling them all with his manifesto against the high price of groceries and cloth diapers while Madge rolled her eyes behind his back. If he had his way, they'd all go back to the bartering system and forget this newfangled currency issued by the Bank of New Panem.

"Gale ended up with four kids after only three tries, so he's bound to be a little annoyed about the amount of food—" he's interrupted by a sneezing fit from the hay and dust that Governor kicked up on the way to bully some milk from his mother.

"Bless you!" Prim cries after a string of vehement sneezes.

"Th-th-th – achoo-ee!" Rory groans. Prim produces a handkerchief from the inside pocket of her winter coat and hands it to him. "Thanks," he mumbles.

Prim listens to him blow his nose, looking regretful. "Rory, you must be catching a cold out here," she murmurs, worry darkening her eyes to a sapphire blue as the sneezing fit continues afresh.

"It's just the dust—" He starts to correct her, but a lightbulb flashes somewhere in the dark recesses of his brain. He sniffles and blows his nose again. "Er, yeah. I might be coming down with something."

"Let's get you inside," Prim coos. "Poor thing."

Rory knuckles his eyes under the pretext that they have started to water. If he'd known that a few well-timed sneezes were all it would take to get Prim inside where it's warm, then he would have pretended to sneeze as soon as he stepped into the shed. Of course it would take someone else's health as an excuse to drag her away from the animals and out of the cold. He gets to his feet almost cheerfully and pulls Prim up beside him.

They take turns brushing hay off of each other's backs and legs. Rory pulls her toward the stall door, feeling so relieved that his mission is accomplished that in a burst of enthusiasm he wishes the family of goats a merry Christmas.

Princess Eugenia bleats at them, so he even turns around and waves. But she keeps bleating until Prim pays attention. "What is it, girl?" she asks.

_Meeeeeh_. Princess Eugenia shakes her head up and down. Prim glances up bemusedly then she giggles into her hand.

"What?" Rory asks, hoping it won't take up any more time.

Prim points to the beam. "Look up, Rory. Princess Eugenia caught us."

Rory looks up at the beams overhead and spots the mistletoe Prim put there this morning. He blushes.

"Er."

"Aren't you going to kiss me?" she says playfully.

Rory's eyebrows jump into his hairline. "In front of the goats?" he croaks.

Prim beams at him without a care in the world. Rory glances at her pink bowtie lips and the point of her red nose and the thick sweep of lashes framing her clear, blue eyes. Something drops in his stomach. He reminds himself that this is his barn and his wife, and _bogdammit_, he can kiss her without embarrassment. Even if the goats and chickens are watching, and more than likely judging his performance. Especially Poulette.

Rory sets his shoulders with determination. He picks a forgotten piece of straw out of Prim's hair, remembering when she used to be taller than him by three fingers, and when he finally caught up to her, and then when he skyrocketed upward till he almost matched Gale in height. Even balancing on the balls of her feet like a little robin hopping from worm to worm, Prim's still a good six or seven fingers shorter.

Rory bends over her till their noses almost touch. "Well. Merry Christmas, Primrose." He kisses her cold cheek, teasing a trail across her skin until he finds her smiling lips. She presses them against his, bunching her mittened fingers in his hair. They warm him all over like warm Christmas cookies and cider, his favorites, until he forgets about the goats and Henny Penny, Minerva Louise, Poulette and Little Red. Prim tastes like the spicy holiday tea he brought her and something sweet that's distinctly Prim. His shaking hands slip inside her coat, gently bunching the fabric of her nightgown where he holds her waist close to his own. Encouraged for posterity's sake, he kisses her for each and every bunch of mistletoe across the center beam. Prim giggles and blushes and smiles just like the first time they kissed.

"Merry Christmas, Rory," she says breathlessly when all the mistletoe are accounted for. And this time she leads him out of the shed. The kisses keep them warm all the way down the frozen path, into the house, into bed, and under the covers.

In the east, the sky turns a soft dove gray as the sun rises on Christmas morning.

* * *

**The End**

Merry Christmas! May your holidays be filled with friends and family, in whatever shape and size and texture they come in. ~ MS

…

For the morbidly curious about medea!verse HG 2nd Generation:

Katniss/Peeta: Elodie and Jack (Flapjack)

Gale/Madge: Rowan, Daisy, and twins Rhys & Corin

Rory/Prim: Buttercup, five dozen kittens, four chickens, twenty-five chicks, a rooster, three goats, a pond full of frogs, a border collie named Flaubert…human children undecided.


	3. Gift of the Madgepie

**A/N:** Here's take three on the annual Christmas HG story tradition. I hope you enjoy this bit of Gadge and that you all have a Merry Christmas or happy holiday.

* * *

**Christmas Cheers:**

**Gift of the Madgepie**

_1.5 weeks to Christmas, Year 78 Capitol Reckoning. _

December rolled into the northern reaches above the bunkers of District 13 with gusto, coating the boreal forests and clustered villages with snow and ice. Record-setting accumulation had been mentioned and bemoaned by refugees who had relocated from sunnier climbs, but as Madge picked her way along the unplowed road into town, the white-laced pines seemed to shield her from the wind. The dark clouds heavy with more snow made the world seem like it could fit into one of her snow globes on the mantelpiece at home. She tightens her hood and pushes on through a drift. It wasn't Christmas without snow, besides, Madge mused.

It also wasn't Christmas without giving. That troubled Madge, somewhat. She had agreed to meet Gale in the late afternoon for last minute Christmas shopping after his shift ended at the Department of Forestry and Wildlife, or DFW, as they called it. She didn't have to worry about what to send their family, who still lived in the underground bunker. Vick and Posy had even mailed her Christmas lists when she'd asked, and while Hazelle and Rory were coy about asking for anything, she knew she could count on…well, she hoped she could count on Gale to offer some insights.

The source of her concern derives from Gale himself. Madge wanted to give him something perfect to show how much she cared about him. This wasn't just _any _Christmas, after all. It was their first Christmas as a married couple. After a year of war and another year of national confusion, restoration and infrastructural befuddlement, when plans for resettling and refugees were made, unmade and remade on a constantly revolving basis – Madge and Gale had finally took the plunge and gotten to work building their home on the foundation where Gale had proposed to her two years prior, just after the war had ended.

They put off the toasting for a year. Everyone needed a little more settling after the war. Hazelle hadn't decided if she wanted to move back to Twelve or to the new town above Thirteen where Madge and Gale's property stood. She still hasn't decided, so the kids and Hazelle remain in the Underground. Madge is suspicious that she's waiting for Gale to break down and tell Hazelle to move up here.

Madge, though enjoying the privacy, sort of wishes Hazelle were here to give her advice about Gale. And giving anything to Gale was always a mental feat. A Seam trait, Madge reckons, remembering how Katniss had tried to give back the Mockingjay pin. Silly.

Gifts had to be practical or Gale wouldn't use them, which Madge couldn't comprehend. And that was part of the trouble right there – he always acted like he didn't need _anything_, unless it was for their house, which still lay in pieces. For his birthday, he asked for a new putty knife so he could get back to scraping spackle right after they had cake. Instead she'd bought him a monogrammed wallet (she stitched the initials) to replace the one he'd forced together with duct tape, which was still in the box. He said he was saving it for the day he'd have something to put in it since money didn't seem to stick around for long.

Then she'd gotten the putty knife for her birthday, along with the spackle and a few cans of paint.

Madge's sigh comes out in a misty puff of air lost in the swirling snow as the town comes into view. The chilly air smells like snow and road salt as she approaches the downtown area. The evergreen-entwined streetlamps glow with little white hallows in the early darkness outside of the five buildings on Main Street. It was the only street, in fact. Driving, you could miss the town entirely if you blinked at just the wrong moment. Madge passes the gas and service station standing a little off from the others, and then the open parcels where a school and a hotel were meant to go in order to entice more families to move up here. A cobbled sidewalk starts at the town hall that also functions as the post office, police station, fire station, and the garbage disposal service. She sees the jeep Gale drives for the DFW in the municipal parking lot alongside the garages, which means he's already across the street waiting for her at Stubb's Dry Goods and Grocery tucked in between the bakery and drug store.

Madge picks her way across the slushy street after a car passes, then throws off her hood and shakes the snow from her coat when she steps into Stubb's. Her sapphire engagement ring snags on her mitten when she tries to pull it off. After spending a chilly afternoon staining trim in the garage behind their house, her hands have gone stiff, but especially the one that she broke during the War when a Jabberjay smashed it with his gun. Madge flexes her fingers and tries to discretely do the stretches her therapist showed her as she deviates down an aisle.

A burst of scents accost her senses, which is why the candles and oil aisle is always empty. Nobody spends much time in this section without getting a headache. Madge messages her hand until the ache dulls, then she grabs a box of Christmassy-looking cinnamon votives. Her favorite. She justifies the extra expense as a celebratory necessity. After all, they survived their first year of marriage, putting together a house and, well, it's Christmas.

Leaving the candles behind, Madge finds Gale blinking suspiciously at a flock of frozen turkeys in the meat freezers. It's odd, because she felt certain Gale had put a ban on turkey and frozen food alike.

Gale's hands are balled up beneath his arms, which are folded over his chest. A plastic basket hangs from the crook of his elbow and it tremors just slightly. His nose and cheeks are red. At first she wonders if the sight of all the food has upset him like it used to, but as Madge gets closer, she notices the damp smell of his old wool coat. He's soaked through from the snowfall and tromping around in the woods all day. The chill from the open freezer display must be clinging to him like a fangirl on Finnick Odair.

Feeling guilty, Madge notices that the patch she tried to sew over the hole on the elbow of his coat has pulled out of its stitches. They both knew he could do a better job, but she wanted to try. She's silently grateful her mother-in-law is far away in the Underground so she can't see.

Gale's whole body relaxes when he notices Madge walk up beside him. She adds a box of matches and the cinnamon candles to his half-filled basket. Then she slips her hand inside of his. He glances at the brown splotches all over it from the stain.

"Thinking about what you want for Christmas dinner?" she teases, indicating the turkeys.

He glances away from her hand to the case. "I'm ruling out turkey. You?"

"I thought we'd have whatever you brought in." Madge shrugs. That's how it always worked, especially now that he'd gotten a handle on using the rifle that the DFW had issued him. He liked it so much, he bought it off of them so he could bring it home. On paper, he was meant to use it to protect the district from muttations. In reality, he uses it on dinner. Anything with fur or feathers within a reasonable weight – and given the district – doesn't appear to be radioactive. So far nothing on their table ever started glowing.

"Oh. Well." Gale uses his free hand to crimp the hair on the back of his head. "Maybe we should just buy something this time? I never had ham before." He points to a sale sign at the end of the case.

"Ham?" Madge peers up at him strangely. "Why?" Her fingers try to loosen where he's holding them so she can check his forehead for a fever.

Gale shrugs. "I thought I'd cut back on hunting."

Madge gasps.

"What?"

"You're coming down with something," Madge says with wide, rounded eyes. "It's this wet coat. How are your lungs? Is it pneumonia?"

Gale's eyebrows pinch together in consternation. "I'm not sick. I just thought I'd use the extra time to get the house finished. I'm sick of breathing varnish."

"We'd better buy a thermometer." She slaps her hand on his forehead anyway.

"Cut it out, Madge. I don't have a fever," he gripes as his hand circles her wrist and pull them away.

Madge frees herself and puts her hands on her hips. "You're lying or you're losing your grip on reality."

She's been through enough of his monologues about his preference for game over meat from the feedlots leftover from President Snow's regime. When the report came out from District all the districts, Gale felt too sick to eat anything but toast for days after reading about the practices in District 10.

Gale pinches her chin between his fingers, which seems to stop her short. "So what if I want fancy store-bought food. This stuff's local." He winks at her.

They have a staring contest while Madge purses her lips and tries to figure out what he's really up to. But his stony expression gives away nothing.

"Alright," she says, deflating. "But it's a major paradigm shift."

Gale laughs. "Just forget it." Then he notices something in the basket. "We're out of smelly candles?"

"_Scented_ candles. There's a difference, darling," she drawls, mimicking their friend Bristel.

"Sure there is. Paradigm shift," he mutters, though he doesn't know what that means. "I already picked out a few gifts while I waited for you."

Madge takes a cursory glance at his basket. "I thought you replaced your screw driver weeks ago."

"I did." He hefts the tool in his hand. "Vick might like one."

Madge nudges him in the ribs with her elbow. "I doubt it."

"Well, I don't have any other ideas," he says, looking down his nose at her. "Squirrels don't ship well."

Madge gives him a grimacing smile as she takes the screw driver away. "Vick's a little old to want a pet squirrel anyway. I ordered Vick a leather-bound sketchbook and a set of charcoals. _Like he asked._"

Gale snorts. Charcoal and paper, foreign tools to him.

"Who is the duct tape for?" Madge asks.

"Rory."

Images of putty knives and paint cans flash behind her eyes – Gale's practical side taking over. "You are not buying Rory tape for Christmas." She plucks the pewter-colored wheel of tape out of the basket and sets it back up on the display behind them.

Gale stares, no doubt thinking about the ratty rag he calls a wallet. "But it's useful."

"But not fun," she tells him. "Presents should be interesting and meaningful."

"_Meaning_ he should get off of his lazy butt and fix up their house. When they get one," he adds.

"Your mother's waiting for you to tell her to get a house up here," Madge hastily points out. "In the meantime, pick out something else, please."

Gale sighs dramatically. Probably where Posy learned it.

"I'll find something for Hazelle and Posy, then take the rest of this over to the check out. Meet me over there?"

"Right."

Madge watches Gale lope away, then goes in search of presents.

…

One purple unicorn Blanket Buddy and a set of soothing hand lotions later, Madge cuts across the outfitting section of the store and suddenly finds herself in the middle of a forest scene. Hunting outerwear. Madge pauses in the center of the jacket racks and runs her fingers down the strange-feeling outer shell of a camouflaged winter coat. If Gale had a coat like this, he could hunt more comfortably. At the park he has to wear his ranger uniform, but he can't hunt in it during his off hours. He'd never feel right buying something this nice for himself to go hunting in. For some reason he feels like his clothes should be worn and shabby, even if he wouldn't let her walk around in a coat like his - which is why he needs Madge to spend it for him. She could buy him one of those orange caps too hanging on a pegboard nearby, then she might not have to worry about him getting shot by other hunters. And he'd be warm. Even though he layers his clothing, she knows his old jacket gets damp and doesn't block the wind – it doesn't even block the draft in the freezer section! Maybe she could get him some new boots, as well. He complains about how his feet hurt wearing his old ones. The insoles probably have as much spring in them as a playing card.

Madge turns over the price tag hanging from the cuff and nearly drops their basket. _$189.99! _

The cost for that single item leaves Madge feeling dizzy. It has certainly been an adjustment, learning how much things cost in the real world. She grimaces just imagining the look on Gale's face if he were to see that amount of money disappear from their account. The coat alone waltzes painfully close to leaving their spending comfort zone, what with the expense of the house and her physical therapy for her hand, which requires her to travel to the Underground every six weeks. He'd want to know how she spent that money and she wouldn't blame him.

She's not even sure they have that much in their coffers. The gifts for his family will make a dent.

Madge regretfully walks away from the coat display to the checkout counter where a kid about Rory's age, maybe a little older, works the register. He's wearing a wrinkled apron and building a tower out of bubble gum packs. Madge supposes the other 228 citizens of this _populous _village have already been by the store today. When she sets her basket on the counter, he startles and the tower crumbles.

"Good evening, Mrs. H." He leers at her the way the way scrubby sixteen year old boys will do and she notices a few blemishes cropping up under his greasy nose. "It's a pleasure to see you for the third time today."

"Hello, Cole." She scooches the basket a little closer, but he doesn't seem to notice it.

"Forget something else this time?"

Madge smiles tightly. "Yes, the rest of our Christmas shopping."

"You know, we have these magnetic shopping lists for your refrigerator." He jerks his thumb at a cardboard display at the end of the counter. One she'd seen plenty of times with no interest. "They have the store phone number on 'em. We can pull anything you like and have it ready if you call ahead." He switches postures, leaning heavily on one hip while he skims his finger over the counter. "I'd personally be happy to pull _anything_ you'd like."

Madge's lips twitch before she bites them. "No, thank you, Cole. We don't own a phone yet." Gale prefers to stay off the grid and use his office phone when he absolutely has to.

"Phones in aisle eight. Rotary or wireless. Rotary's on sale."

"Maybe next time."

While Cole rings up her items, Madge pulls out her coin purse and silently leafs through the bills and counts coins.

$23.16.

She eyes the register, then the contents of her purse. Her stomach wilts. She still has to buy Gale a gift and they don't get another paycheck until after the holidays. Her ears turn pink while Cole pretends he isn't watching her struggle. She ends up spilling some of her change onto the counter along with a few receipts.

"Getting ready for company?" he asks as he bags the candles.

Madge glances up quickly, then back down at the coins she's shoving into her purse. "No, my husband and I decided to spend our first Christmas alone at home. We haven't had time to enjoy it yet." Madge bites the inside of her cheek. "On second thought, why don't you put the candles back. And the matches," she replies calmly, despite her embarrassment. She can't justify the extra spending.

Cole bumps an acrylic sign holder with his elbow as he lifts the shopping bag for her to take. A wrinkled _Help Wanted_ flyer was shoved inside of it.

Madge blinks at the flyer. The starting pay is awfully low, but then, Madge isn't sure what a good starting salary is, having never held a job before. She didn't even know how to pay a bill or understand how much things cost until she moved in with Gale. She simply hadn't had to worry about things like prices when she lived with her parents in Twelve.

She calculates the weekly rate in her head and feels a shiver in her spine. It wouldn't take too long to pay off the coat and boots and maybe something extra for Gale. With the house just a few project away from completion and Gale strangely determined to put aside everything to get it done – she'd have time to work outside of the house now.

Madge coughs to get Cole's attention. "Is the store hiring?" she asks.

"Uh." He scratches his head. "Yeah."

"Is there an application?" she prompts after he stares at her stupidly.

Cole pulls out a thick pad of yellow paper from a drawer. Blank boxes and small text completely cover the page. He tears off the first one and hands it to her. Madge quickly tucks it into a neat fold of the Blanket Buddy so it won't get ruined - and so Gale won't see and ask her about it.

"You know," his voice dips down to his toes, "we could work together. When there aren't any customers we can slide across the aisles in tube socks-Oh." Cole's voice loses its inflection. "Hello, Mr. Hawthorne." Gale always gets his full name. Madge never.

"Kid." Gale plunks down a summer sausage gift basket complete with festive ribbons on the counter. He throws down a few bills with it. Finally, something Rory will love. Food and something to carry it in.

Madge feels Gale's hand warm on her shoulder. She can guess the look on his face. She throws all the loose change and receipts haphazardly into her purse and quickly scoops up the bag with their things - all the better to get Gale home faster.

"_Merry Christmas_, Mrs. H." Cole makes a face at Gale remarkably similar to a frog. "I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow."

"Hell's teeth," Gale mutters, grabbing the handle of the cheese and sausage basket in one hand and steering Madge away from the counter and out the door. "He acts like he knows you."

"We are here every day," Madge points out. It's an unfortunate fact of building a home. You never have what you need on hand.

"What did he want?" Gale asks. "Sounded like I interrupted something."

"Oh, just to go tube sock sliding with me." Not strictly a fib, Madge pulls it off. She keeps the job opening to herself.

Gale's eyes narrow. "Wrong."

"Give me that," Gale grouses, taking the bag away from Madge. He stomps headlong into the snow-covered street toward the parking and woe betide the car that doesn't stop for him. "Kid bugs me."

Madge waves away his ire. "Oh, Gale. He's harmless." She tucks her hands deeply into her pockets and follows, picking her way carefully in case of ice and vehicles who won't hesitate to mow her down even if they veer to avoid Gale. Unfair, really.

"I know, Madge," he grouses, "but the kid's a classic example why animals don't let their runts live."

"_Gale,_" Madge gasps, giving him a stern look,_ "_it's Christmas, remember. Peace on earth, good will toward men."

"Huh."

"What?" she asks. "So Cole's a little strange. At least it's in a sweet way."

Gale stops abruptly in the middle of the street and Madge hastens can catch up. "Sweet?"

"Did you know he's willing to pull anything I want?" she says deadpan.

Gale snorts. "Punk."

Madge rolls her eyes upward as they walk under some telephone wires indicating the sidewalk that's buried in snow. She sighs.

"Let's face it, Gale," she tells him. "We're back to living in a small town with all the colorful, small-town people included."

"Whose idea was that?" Gale asks while he balances the basket on his knee and fumbles with the keys to their jeep.

"Yours."

"Figures."

Madge takes the keys from him and unlocks the hatch. Gale shoves the bag and basket inside the trunk and slams it shut while Madge hesitates to get in the front.

She loops her arms beneath his in a hug while their breath mists between them. "I want to talk about Christmas. Like how we're going to get these presents to your family, since we're not going to see them."

Gale shrugs. "I'll take them to the post office when I go to work tomorrow."

Madge nods. "Do you think we can sleep under the tree?"

Gale wrinkles his nose at the idea, but his arms are tight around her waist. "You mean the tree we brought indoors for no practical reason?"

"Not pra-?" Madge's eyes widen in shock. "Where else would we put presents?"

"I'm still getting over the fact that there _are _presents."

Madge bites her lip. There isn't one for him yet and they made a dent in her pocket money tonight.

"I saw you watering the tree this morning," she sniffs, trying not to think about money. "I bet you enjoy our tree just as much as I do."

"Do not," he retorts a little too quickly. "Dry pine needles are a fire hazard."

"So I'll make it worth your while," she promises, crawling her fingers up his arms.

Gale's eyebrows cinch together, interested to know what would make sleeping under a tree in his own house worthwhile. "Really?"

Madge grins triumphantly. "Yes, I'll pull anything you want," she says with a laugh.

Gale winces, then laughs. "Madge, you were brought up too well to talk dirty."

"I thought I was getting better." She sulks.

"Well, don't steal lines you heard in the general store, for starters," he teases as he gently pulls away and opens the door on the passenger side door for her.

After they get home, Madge wraps the gifts on the floor while Gale stretches out on the couch. She enjoys the quiet and the soft light from the tree. To save money, she tried to make a popcorn garland for their tree instead of buying store-bought decorations, other than a set of twinkle lights. Gale ate most of the popcorn before she could get it on the string. Apparently the lack of butter and salt wasn't a deterrent for a guy who spent most of his life without either. The rest of the ornaments were made from decorative paper and ribbon glued to round soup can lids.

Beside the tree, there's nothing else in the room but the rug and fireplace. Madge carefully stashes the application under the couch while Gale snores. Later, when he drags himself to bed, she'll fill it out. Madge wonders if it's silly to keep the job a secret from him, but then decides the extra income can be the second half of his Christmas present.

…

The jeep fishtails all the way home on the snowy road as Madge speeds back from Stubb's. The store closed at noon on Christmas Eve after the last of their customers were finally beaten out by the owner's wife, Mrs. Stubb. Madge just had enough time to wrap Gale's presents before the doors were locked behind her. But she had a little Christmas bonus in her pocket and the exact gift she wanted for Gale piled next to her on the passenger seat; that makes up for missing her morning at home.

She gave Gale some lame excuse as she was getting ready to go in for needing the jeep all morning, which she isn't sure he bought. It will be such a relief to finally tell him about the job. For the last week, she's made up every excuse she could think of for why she wasn't home this morning and why she's falling behind on their project schedule for the last week. Add the fact that she's living in constant terror that he'd show up at the store on his lunch break while she's there in her apron and going over their stock of canned cream of chicken soup, spoiling the surprise.

Madge pulls into their driveway at an odd angle and almost skids into the garage door. She balances the packages in her arms and carefully picks her way up their icy sidewalk leading to their front door. A nervous energy hums in her veins the nearer she gets and it takes all her willpower to force herself wait to make him open his presents.

Madge uses her elbow to knock on the door, since there isn't a doorbell and she can't let go of the boxes to open the door without dropping everything. Her coat muffles the sound, so she knocks again with her boot. She shouldn't have let Gale win that argument, but he felt dead-set against installing a doorbell.

The scent of roasting chicken, cinnamon and wood smoke issue around her in an invisible vapor when Gale finally gets the door. His hair still looks as tossled as when he woke up and his socks don't match.

"Where did you go? District 4?" he asks, taking the boxes without looking at them. "You were gone for ages."

"Sure. Finnick says Merry Christmas." Madge presses a kiss to his cheek while suppressing a smirk as Gale looks over her head to make sure the jeep is still in one piece. She slips past him into the foyer before she gives anything away.

Gale follows her toward the living room where a fire crackles and hisses in the fireplace. Madge stops dead in her tracks on the threshold barely recognizing her own living room. That is – the living room she has now.

Somehow Gale has transformed the space into a completely different room just in the six hours she spent at work. For a split second, she thought she had been transported back to the mansion in District 12 at Christmas time. Granted, one of the small anterooms.

"Gale – where did the smelly – er – scented candles come from?" she gasps as the fire and candlelight from the hearth make the shadows shift along the garlanded walls.

"I noticed you put them back the other day." He shrugs. "I knew they were special to you."

How? Madge never told him that her family always set out cinnamon candles at Christmas. While she'd spent the morning ringing up cans of cranberry sauce and wrapping boxes of cheap perfume in order to give Gale a good Christmas, he'd been doing the same thing for her.

"Do you like it?" Gale asks tentatively. His hand lights on her back, skimming down to the hollow.

Madge nods, taking in the evergreen garlands over the mantle and on the wall, the ribbons and even a little pair of stockings. Her eyes start to prickle with tears. The candles punctuate the either side of a line of Christmas cards from their friends on the mantle.

"Gale, room looks just the way it would when Hanna and I would decorate when I was a girl." Gale sets the presents down on the sofa in the center of the room while she takes off her coat. "How did you know?"

Gale crimps the hair on the back of his head. "I, uh, wrote to Katniss." He shrugs when she blinks in confusion. "I thought she might remember how your family did Christmas, since you two spent the last year in Twelve together so much. You seemed kind of down about something lately, so I thought maybe this would help."

Madge's lips part in surprise. She thought she'd been more discrete while she worried about not having money for his presents. She turns into him and he opens his arms for her.

"It's beautiful. Thank you," she murmurs into his chest. "But where did you get all of the boughs?"

"We had to thin out a stand of fir trees out near the power station anyway," he tells her. "I stored these in the shed while you were out somewhere the other morning." He gives her a mysterious look.

"Oh." Madge swallows, cursing secrets for being so hard – even more so when he's being incredibly sweet. She slips away from him and walks around the tree to put Gale's gift underneath so he can't look at her. When she steps back around, she says, "Dinner smells good. Is it almost ready?"

A muscle in Gale's cheek works a little bit before he answers. "Almost. I was about to do something before I heard you knocking – oh," he says. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

Madge watches him disappear into the hallway, then she hears the door open and close behind him.

While she waits, Madge wanders toward the warm fire and soaks in the festive air in the room. She picks up the first card and reads it again. Bristel and Tansy sent them a fruitcake with a homemade card taped to the wrapping paper. Madge met Tansy when they were both trying to flee from District 12. When they reunited in the Underground, Madge introduced her to Gale's best friend Bristel. That was that.

The card next to it came from Peeta and the Everdeens. He painted a starry night scene with watercolors on a folded piece of cardstock. They still live in the Underground, waiting for the massive cleanup project that is District 12. Madge wonders if that's why Katniss and Peeta haven't married. Though, while there might be peace on earth, both of them still need more peace in their own minds.

Haymitch even sent a note, but it was in a sympathy card with a Christmas tree scrawled on it with a black marker. Madge purses her lips as she looks at it again. It's the thought that counts, her father would say, if he could say anything at all. Madge quashes that thought. She wants to remember her parents on Christmas the way Gale did, by reviving their favorite traditions.

With a sigh, Madge props up a picture card against a snow globe that came from Quintus and someone who might be Nevada Rockbridge, but it's hard to tell because all you can see is Quintus dressed up like a candy striper tugging someone into the shot by a red and white elbow.

With the mantle in order, Madge turns back to the Christmas tree to add last-minute touches to the decorations. Gale did a nice job on the room, she muses, despite protesting that he needed Christmas decorations for weeks and though it seemed to physically pain him to bring bits of tree into the house. She realizes with a start that he had been laying the groundwork for a way to surprise her the whole time – just like she's been deceiving him all week so he would get to surprise him. Although, she doesn't think he was lying about the tree. The house was the house and the woods were the woods. He has a hard time blending the two, which is a source of amusement for Madge.

A timer goes off in the kitchen, distracting her from the tree. Gale's still nowhere in sight, so Madge wanders into the other room to rescue whatever he's cooking.

Just as Madge switches the oven to off, she hears Gale stomping his boots against the bricks outside of the front door so he doesn't track snow all over the hallway. The door creaks open on cold hinges, then slams shut.

"Madge?" he calls down the hallway.

"In here," Madge replies from the kitchen.

She passes into the living room as he appears holding a huge box in front of him like a square baby belly.

"What is that?" Madge makes room for Gale's distended false stomach as he crosses to the couch.

"Package from mom and the kids." He pretends to guess the contents by jiggling the box. He gives her a mischievous grin. "Christmas presents."

"Where did it come from?" she asks. "There wasn't any post today."

Gale smirks. "I hid it in the shed."

"The shed." Madge steps closer with a frown wondering what else is in the shed that she missed this week besides boughs and boxes while she wasn't doing house projects. "Why were you hiding it in the shed? We could've put the presents under the tree."

Gale laughs and sets the box down. "Because you're a snoop," he tells her. "Mom specifically told me over the phone - twice - to make sure you didn't sneak any peeks until Christmas."

Madge opens her mouth to argue this mar on her character, but she has too many hours logged listening at air ducts and through keyholes during her lifetime.

"She wasn't worried you'd peek too?" Madge sniffs when nothing better comes to mind.

Gale gives her a wry look, as if to say it should be obvious that he's got more self-control, before he pulls out a pocket knife and slices into the packing tape. A handful of foam peanuts spill onto the floor when he lifts the cardboard flaps, revealing smaller wrapped packages and a card lying neatly on top. Gale hands Madge the card to read. A crayon portrait of the Hawthornes in stick form drops out of the card. It has Posy's eight-year-old scrawly signature on the corner. Fortunately, Hazelle wrote the letter herself.

_Dear Gale and Madge, We're glad to hear that your home is finished. We can't wait to visit and will miss having you home for the holidays. Enjoy the presents! Posy asks that you send her pictures of the snow. Merry Christmas ~ Mom, Rory, Vick and Posy._

Madge folds the letter and gives it to Gale. _"_Your mother took our request for a private Christmas pretty well," she points out with hint of incredulity. Hazelle is usually a stickler for family time, and after both she, Rory and Gale were involved directly in the war, it reached nigh on obsessive.

Gale glances at Madge. "I think the request coincides with another one of her objectives."

"Which objective is that?" Good housekeeping?

His eyes slide down her body, then away. "Just some senseless notion that those extra bedrooms aren't just for guests."

"We should put the presents under the tree," Madge suggests evasively, slightly mortified by every push her mother-in-law gives them to produce grandchildren. She can't even produce dinner without burning something. She shudders to think of what they'd do to a baby.

While Madge crawls under the lowest boughs to set out the packages in a tasteful pattern and gets pine needles in her hair, Gale gets busy in the kitchen. He pops his head out to ask when the timer went off on the chicken.

Madge has to back out from behind the tree. "Not long," she tells him while she untangles her hair from a branch.

"Oh." Gale shakes his head and retreats back into the kitchen. He comes back ten seconds later just as she's testing the adhesive quality of the tape on one of the gifts. She drops the box.

Gale's eyes narrow. But he asks, "Madge, you turned on a burner instead of turning off the oven. Again."

"Oops." She nudges the box back under the tree with her foot.

Gale rolls his eyes and disappears again for a split second before telling her she'd better come in to the kitchen where he can keep an eye on her.

Madge sighs resignedly and leaves the presents behind.

…

While Gale puts away the leftovers from dinner, Madge goes around re-lighting the scented candles in the living room.

When he rejoins her, he asks, "What's next?"

Madge blows a strand of hair out of her eyes, and glances around the room. "I thought we'd open presents."

"On Christmas Eve?"

"That's how we did it in my family."

Gale runs his hands down the sides of his trousers and glances toward the front hall. "I'm not prepared," he tells her.

"That's alright." She holds out her hand to him. "Come on. We'll open the ones from your mom and the kids first."

Gale joins her on the floor by the tree. She browses the packages with a finger on her lips, thinking a lot longer about which one to start with than he would've. She selects a lumpy package and hands it to him.

"You go first," she tells him. "This is from Posy."

Gale tears the paper in two and out falls a velvety red, triangular cap with white faux-fur trim and a tufty white ball on the end of the triangle. He stares at it hard.

"What is this?" he asks, holding it up between pinched fingers.

"A Santa hat," she tells him with a broad grin.

"What?"

Madge takes the cap from him and fits it over his head. "There."

Gale glowers as the tufty pompom lands on his nose. "I look like an idiot in this."

"You look great," Madge giggles.

"Oh yeah?" he says darkly, "what did she send you?"

Madge selects another package and opens a box containing a brand-new doll. Madge laughs and hands it off to Gale. He examines the doll. "I can't tell if she's hinting about nephews and nieces or that she'll need something to play with when she comes to visit."

Madge shrugs. "Let's go with the visit theory for a while longer."

Vick's gift comes in a thin envelop with cardboard. Madge opens it carefully and pulls out a series of his own artwork for them to hang up in their living room called "Home."

They depict some of Vick's favorite scenes from Twelve. Odd angles and views painted from the perspective of a little boy. The first is a coal sketch of half-wilted tree growing in the lot behind their old home in the Seam. Then a view from just above the long grass in the Meadow. One that startles them both: Gale's back disappearing into the woods beyond the fence.

The final drawing shows a blur of children playing on the school grounds during recess. It directs the eye toward the left corner of the drawing to where a younger Madge reads a book on a bench by herself.

"Kid's observant," Gale whispers as he studies the woods through the blue-gray chain links of the third picture. "I didn't know he ever saw me leave through the fence."

"He even captured your swagger," Madge points out.

Gale swaps his picture out with the one of her on the playground. "You weren't very social, were you?"

"That's why Katniss and I got on so well." Then she adds, "It's hard to make friends when your dad's the mayor."

At one time Gale would've said something sarcastic, but he's developed some manners since they escaped from District 12. "Well, what did Rory send?"

"It's for both of us," says Madge. "You open it."

Gale unwraps a box and stares at it in puzzlement. "A mounted fish? Where did Rory get a chance to fish?"

Madge shrugs. "Take it out of the box."

Gale does and pulls off the bubble wrap around the plaque. "What does this switch do?" He flips the switch and jumps a few feet away from the tree when the fish comes to life. The fish lands on the floor, flopping feebly as it sings:

"_Take me to the river,_

_Drop me in the water…"_

"Hell's teeth, what is that thing?" Gale asks from behind the couch. "A mutt?"

Madge gives him a pointed look for leaving her defenseless with a potential mutt while she calmly picks up the box to read. "Big Mouth Billy Bass. Singing animatronics." She waves the plaque at him. "I think we're supposed to hang it on the wall."

Gale scowls. "Absolutely not."

"Come out from behind the couch, Gale," she orders, patting the rug. "You still have to open the gift from your mother."

Gale glowers suspiciously at the package Madge puts in his lap when he settles beside her, far away from where Billy Bass landed.

Luckily, he receives a pair of gloves and thermal underwear, neither of which sing at him. Fortunately.

Meanwhile, Madge frowns thoughtfully over Hazelle's gift to her.

"What is it?" Gale asks.

"Piano music," Madge murmurs. "Hmm." She smiles weakly, wondering what she's supposed to do with it. "Nice of her." Then she takes a deep breath and sets the music aside. "Well, that leaves your present."

Gale looks at her strangely. "Wait, let's do yours. I have to bring it inside though."

Madge blinks at him. "Let me guess…the shed?"

He gives her a self-deprecating grin. "Just wait here." He gets up quickly and strides toward the hallway. Then he stops and pivots around. "Maybe you should close your eyes."

Madge moves to the couch to wait and practice getting her face right when she opened up another box of floor tiles to replace the cracked ones for the bathroom or maybe a new furnace filter since they hadn't replaced this year's yet. It won't bother her, whatever he's gotten her. His real present to her was the effort he took to make her feel like she had a bit of home for the holidays. She closes her eyes and nearly falls asleep listening to the fire crackling.

Then something crashes against the front door and Gale's muffled curses cause Madge to peek in the direction of the hallway. A gust of wind blows out some of the candles.

"Do you need help?" she calls. It sounded heavy. Floor tiles.

"_No!" _

After more grunting and swearing, Gale wheels a long cardboard box, cut out at the bottom and coming up to his hips, into the living room. His Santa hat sits askew and his clothes are soaked with snowmelt. In one movement, he wheels it toward the big picture window facing the river and the woods and removes box from the top of it.

Madge jumps up from the couch and circles a beautiful console piano. Much smaller than the baby grand she had as a girl, but much more welcome.

"Oh, Gale," she breathes as her mind does cartwheels trying to transition from tiles to pianos. Her fingers gently dust over the keyboard. The cold ivory feels intensely familiar, yet at the same time, completely outside of the life she's grown accustomed to with Gale.

"I thought we could keep it under the window here so you can see the woods when you play." He grins. "Like it?"

Madge cups her cheeks in her hands and stares at it. "Of course. But how on earth did you pay for it?"

She tears her gaze away from the piano when he hesitates.

"Er, it's second hand," he evades, squeezing her shoulder. "I figured now that the house is about done and your hand is on the mend, you'll have time to play. Maybe you can give piano lessons like you always wanted. One of the guys at the station is interested. He's got a little girl."

"Oh, Gale." Madge repeats, biting her lip. She'd signed away whatever time she had and, well, she'd rather not think about it. "I…maybe you should open your presents."

Gale makes short work of the paper and tape. As he lifts the flap on the box, his eyes widen just slightly.

He whistles. "A coat." He stares in awe at the tags for a while and Madge feels relieved that she blacked out the prices. "I've never had anything new like this."

Madge brightens. "I know you haven't," she says. "Try it on."

Gale reverently lifts the coat from the box and tucks each arm into the sleeves, letting her help him into the coat. Slowly, she zips it up to his chin and clasps each of the snaps. Then she rights the Santa hat for him.

"See," Madge points to the pockets and hide-aways. "It has all of these zippers so you can keep hunting…er, stuff…in them. And the outer shell is waterproof and can come off if you only need the fleece. Now you won't be so cold when you hunt."

His face pinches, but he quickly irons out his features as she smoothes out the material over his shoulders. "But where did the money come from? I've tracked every penny we've spent. This had to cost…" His eyes water a little as he calculates the possibilities.

Madge takes a deep breath. "Gale, I've been keeping a secret from you."

"I know," he says deadpan, eyebrow quirking upward as if on cue.

She twists her hands together nervously. "I-I got a job. It's a surprise for you."

Gale looks blinkered and sinks down on the couch. "A job?"

She nods. "At Stubb's. I didn't have any money to buy you a Christmas present and I wanted to get you something nice," she says in one long string of words. "With the house just about finished, I can help pay for expenses."

Gale scratches the back of his head, thinking. "That's what you've been up to." Then his eyebrows knit together.

Madge bites her lip. "You aren't mad that I kept it a secret?"

"Uh, no," Gale replies absentmindedly as he fiddles with the zippers on the coat. Then his eyebrows pinch together as he focuses. "So, no piano lessons?"

Madge shakes her head slowly as his train of thought collides with the one she had earlier. "Not until I pay back what I owe for your presents. I, well, I took it out on credit."

"Credit." Gale shakes his head, then lies back on the couch. He tucks his hands under his head and starts to laugh, which startles Madge.

She pinches her elbow. "What's so funny?"

Gale rubs his forehead beneath the hat, then looks at her affectionately. "I sold back my rifle to help pay for the piano."

"Y-you did?" Madge sits down by his side as the import of his words sinks in. "So, not much hunting?"

He shakes his head. "Not at the moment."

"Oh dear." She exhales. "We have muddled Christmas. We got it so right that it sort of went wrong."

"Not wrong, just…we'll figure it out." Gale pulls her down next him on the cushions. "In the end, we got what we wanted, didn't we? The house to ourselves." He smirks. "I can use the piano as work bench when you're at work."

Madge grins, although she'd never allow him to do any such thing with a nice piano. "And I'll know which hunting gear to recommend to customers," she tells him. "_My husband loves gore-tex. It really holds up in the front closet_."

Gale sits up on his elbows, nose to nose with Madge. "Wait, does that mean you'll be working with Cole?"

"Only on the weekends." Madge gives him a conciliatory kiss on his nose.

Gale gives her a sly look, in exchange. "I should let him know there's an opening at the park."

Madge's eyebrow arches. "Is there?"

"Yeah, we need someone to hold the targets up at the archery range."

"Gale," she scolds, but her heart isn't in it.

The fire crackles on the hearth and the sparks fly upward, the orange glow catching on Madge's hair. Gale's fingers smooth a stray strand of her hair as he cradles her against his chest. "Merry Christmas, Madge," he murmurs.

Madge rests her head on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of the pine tree and his warm skin. Even though their house has some more work, she feels like she's home. "Merry Christmas, Gale."

* * *

The End


End file.
